


tell it to the trees

by rickyling



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, ron only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyling/pseuds/rickyling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The devil will attack yer blindside, kid. What's botherin' you?"</p>
<p>AKA, somethings wrong and Carl can't figure out what it is</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell it to the trees

**Author's Note:**

> For Madi who requested Carl and Enid mourning Ron's death

 

The bandage that clings to the right side of Carl’s face pulled on his skin in a familiarly uncomfortable way. He found it pathetically nostalgic when he picked long strands of his hair out from under the adhesive grip, mind drifting to a time before when he’d fall and scrape his knee and his mother would cover the shaved skin with a band-aid. He only lets himself stay there for a few moments, on the hot asphalt of his driveway with his mom rubbing leaking tears off his cheek with his thumb. Carl tears himself away from that, sets the pavement aflame and spits at the ghost of his mother.

Daryl was the first one to notice his discomfort, obviously -- that man had the senses of an animal. Carl felt the brim of his hat behind tilted up as a dark shadow blocked the harsh rays of the sun. Daryl stood above him, patiently waiting for Carl to look him in the eye. That was the thing about Daryl, Carl noticed throughout the years he’d known the archer: when others would treat him as a pitiful child, Daryl would treat him as an equal.

“The devil will attack yer blind side, kid.” Daryl gestured to the bandage on his right eye. “Wha’s botherin’ you?”

“Nothing that matters,” Carl said honestly, shrugging. Daryl didn't budge an inch, still as a leather-clad statue. Carl wrapped his arms around his body and shrugged, looking away. “The bandage pulls at my skin sometimes, is all. Gets annoying when you can't do jack shit ‘bout it.” 

“Watch yer mouth,” Daryl growled. Carl shrugged; Daryl didn't really care about swearing, in fact it was under Daryl’s influence that Carl learned the words had zero meaning in this world, and started handing them out like church pamphlets. Carol once said she could feel the ground shake with the force of Lori rolling in her grave.

“Don't worry ‘bout yer old man,” Daryl continued, glancing over his shoulder at Rick, who was in deep conversation with Michonne. “I'll keep an eye on him.” 

“I know.” Carl nodded, trying to ignore the tinge of annoyance when his skin was pinched. “Always do.” 

When he focused on Daryl with his good eye, the archer was grinning. The upturn of his lips made him easier to look at, less like an alley cat and more like a friendly tom: it took the years off his high cheekbones and added a brightness to those narrow eyes. Carl glared at him, irritation spiking.

“What.” 

“That eye patch is really a pain in yer ass, huh?” Daryl asked, voice good-humored and friendly. When Carl nodded, he continued: “I'll see if we can find somethin’ out there that'll be more comfortable,” the hunter promised, bringing a large, dirty, gentle hand onto Carl’s shoulder. “See you soon.”

“Thanks, Dare.” Carl watched him duck into the passenger seat of the car --  _ always letting Dad lead _ \-- and wondered what it would be like to have Daryl in his life Before. Probably like a really cool uncle, not much different from now.

Guided back to the house by Michonne’s hand on his right shoulder, which bothered him more than it should've, Carl watched over his shoulder his dad and Daryl driving away. The metal doors shut with a clang behind them, one that bounced off the walls and ricocheted right back into Carl’s brain. Painful as the bullet. 

“Michonne?” He asked when they settled at the kitchen table with Judith. 

“Hmm?”

“Do you get bored of being behind these walls?”

“What?” Michonne sounded genuinely curious when she turned to face him. Carl raked his eyes over her; with her soft features and welcoming stance, she seemed the polar opposite of Daryl Dixon. Carl knew better than to think that.

“I mean-- Daryl and Dad seem to get bored,” Carl started, not sure where he was going. “That’s why they’re always leavin’, cuz they get bored.”

Michonne leaned her elbows against the cool granite countertop, eyes turned up to the ceiling in thought. Carl watched her quietly, listening to Judith coo from his left side. He always kept her there now, on the side he could see, where he could still keep an eye on her. Michonne had asked him about it once a few days ago, catching him by surprise. He hadn’t even known he’d gotten into the habit until Michonne pointed it out to him. Carl ran his gaze up her muscular arms and war-heavy face, all the way up to the sword on her back.  _ Why aren’t you out there with them? _

“Daryl,” Michonne began, a smile creeping on her face. “leaves because that man’s a stallion who won’t be broke, not even by your dad, and a community like this only accepts horses that bear the Queen’s brands.” Carl narrowed his eye at her riddle of words but allowed her to continue without interrupting. “And Rick -- your dad -- leaves because he’s a leader and that's what leaders do: they help people. For him, that includes making sure Daryl or whoever else goes beyond those walls gets back alive.”

Carl nodded, taking it all into consideration. So Daryl left because he couldn’t fit in, and the community made him feel worthless and unwanted, and his dad left because he felt like he needed to.  _ So why doesn’t Michonne leave? Or Carol? Why do I? _

“Why do I leave?” Carl asked out loud, hoping maybe Michonne had the answer. The samurai grinned at him from across the counter. 

“Go figure that out.” 

\- 

“Why are we coming back out here?” Enid asked from behind Carl, annoyance weighing her voice. Carl took his time in answering, bringing his fingertip to a dew soaked leaf and watching a bead of water drip down and fill the creases in his skin. 

“Why not?”

Enid narrowed her eyes at him. Carl met her gaze and smiled innocently, leading the way further into the woods, until he stopped in front of the hollowed out tree where he first stood close enough to Enid to feel her breath. They plopped on the ground together in the leaf mulch, not touching, but near enough that when Carl shifted to slip his gun out of his holster, his elbow brushed her shoulder. He grabbed a comic book from Enid’s backpack and began reading.

“We have to talk about it,” the girl said, soft spoken. Carl shook his head and curled in on himself, focusing on the way the sun and leaves created dapples on the pages of his book and not the feeling of Enid staring at him. “Yes,” Enid growled. “We do.”

“Why?” Carl snapped, turning so he faced her with his good eye. “What happened, happened. He’s dead; they’re all dead.”

Enid scoffed in disbelief. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Carl rolled his eye. “What do you want me to say? Ron shot my eye out and was prepared to shoot my father, but hey, I’m sure he was a swell guy.”

“He was,” Enid hissed. “He was and you know it. Everyone has a breaking point.”

“I get that,” Carl sighed, suddenly too exhausted to argue. “And believe me, I wish he never hit his. For both our sakes.”

“So  _ why _ ,” Enid pressed, eyes brimming with tears Carl hadn’t noticed until then.  _ We’re so young… _ “Why are we out here?”

“Because his ghost haunts me in there.”

Enid sucked in a breath and leaned back against the fallen tree. Tears leaked out of her green eyes, sliding down the grime on her cheek. For the first time in a long time, Carl heard birds in the trees. The bandage on his face stopped pulling at his skin. 

“It haunts me, too,” Enid whispered, and Carl nodded. 

“I know.” He reached out and put a hand on her knee, squeezing it softly. “I know.”

Two months later Carl would be saying goodbye to his Dad and Daryl again, and Enid would say she didn’t want to be out in the woods anymore. Carl would nod, accept it without argument, because his bandage was fresh and he learned by then not to let the devil attack his blindside.  _ We aren’t kids _ , Enid said as they stomped through the woods, following the familiar trail to their tree. Carl agreed. They weren’t kids, and only kids were afraid of ghosts.


End file.
